Drabbles from the Mind of Molly Hooper
by Wayfaring Snowflake
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is staying in Molly's house. Her thoughts and feelings are expressed here. Hints at Sherlock/John.


**~~Molly Hooper~~**

He wasn't dead. Seeing all of the people who cared about him killed Molly Hooper every day. She had to drag herself out of her house simply to go hide in her morgue. He wasn't dead. She would know firsthand, because she was the one who helped him fake it. She was the only one who knew.

It hurt a little bit when Jim killed himself. She had honestly felt a connection with him, back when he was simply Jim from IT. Of course, that was all an act. That was as much an act as "Gay Jim" had been an act. She hoped, at least. It suddenly struck her; she had dumped the most dangerous criminal in Britain. Her breath hitched in her throat at that, and she wondered if she would've betrayed Sherlock herself if he hadn't caught her in time. Or if she would be dead. Even at the thought of that, her eyes filled up. She couldn't think of being dead. She couldn't think of any of her friends actually being dead. It hurt to even help Sherlock prepare the "dead" version of himself. He wasn't dead.

She kept having to remind herself of that. He wasn't dead. He wasn't a fake. He thought she counted. What did she count for, anyway? Nothing. Not anymore. Before Sherlock's death, she supposed, she had helped him out on a few cases. After that, though, nothing. She didn't count.

She had comforted John at the funeral. She wanted more than anything to be able to tell the poor man that Sherlock wasn't really dead. He wasn't dead! It was a fake body! It was all set up by the two of them. With that, she decided that she did count for something. Sherlock wouldn't have trusted her with such a huge secret if she didn't count for _something. _

He was off, again. When she had agreed to let him stay at her house, she had thought that he might actually _stay at her house. _He didn't, though. He was always running around, chasing after John. Protecting John. John had to stay safe. John was the only thing that was important. He was Sherlock, though. He had a problem with staying still for too long.

He was always out, running around the city. Molly warned him that it was dangerous, and that someone would eventually see him, but he wouldn't listen. Since his "fall" at Reichenbach he was a different man. He was colder towards her. Harsher. If she thought he said terrible things before, it was 10x worse now. She always forgave him, though. Blamed it on the nerves. He hadn't had any nicotine patches in three months at this point, nor had he anything to smoke. She wouldn't let him, telling him it was bad for himself and that he wanted to actually live to prove the world wrong, right?

_Wrong._

_ Maybe?_

_ No._

_ Yes._

_ Give me my patches._

That was how it always went. After that, when she wouldn't, he would stalk out the door for "some air." He would stalk around the town with that sour look on his face that always made Molly think he looked like he had encountered a particularly sour hard candy. Sherlock didn't eat hard candy, though. Sherlock didn't eat.

Hard though she had tried, she couldn't make him eat. He had been living in her house – well, sleeping in her house – for a year now. He would always watch her eat and sit at her table with him, but never ate. She supposed that he ate while he was out, but that was only a guess. She had never seen him eat anything. _Ever. _

Today was the anniversary of his "death." She went out with him this time. They went to his grave. _He comes here every day... _she thought to herself. She didn't know if she was speaking of John, who was kneeling before the grave, or of Sherlock, who had taken to hiding in a spot of trees some distance away. She came up behind John and laid a hand on his back. He looked up at her, a bit of hope seeming to gleam in his eyes for a moment, then it was gone again. There were tears in his eyes. She hadn't realize that he was still this bad. She hadn't realized that one death could have so much hold on a military man. A military _doctor _for that matter.

It broke her heart, watching John. He was in hysterics. It had been a year since he'd seen Sherlock. The last time he'd seen him his friend's face was bloody and broken. She hated watching him cry, but she couldn't leave until Sherlock did. She glanced over at the taller, raven-haired man. She was nearly taken aback. He looked genuinely upset. She could see the pain written on his face, something that she would never expect from him. She listened to the stories that John was telling the empty grave. That plain black slab of marble. It had no meaning, really. It was just a rock with a name on it unless there was actually someone under it. Surely John understood that.

A few hours later, they went back to her house. Molly pretended that she hadn't seen Sherlock upset, and Sherlock pretended that it never happened. He was closed off. Reserved. Weary. Sad. It hurt Molly to see him so hurt. She lived with it, though. Day after day. A year later, a wedding invitation laid unopened on her kitchen counter. Sherlock was finally going to reveal himself.


End file.
